


Blood type

by floriograph_y



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, First War with Voldemort, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Multi, it's the 70s baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floriograph_y/pseuds/floriograph_y
Summary: In times of darkness, a little savagery can create the brightest light.Aster Ruiz hears the whispers of war beneath the air.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, OC/OC, Remus Lupin/Original Female Character(s), Sirius Black/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 12





	1. Letters from the past

December 31st, 1977

Sitting on a London rooftop in the almost-January chill, I watch my best friend, Cara Kent, chug from a pint like this is her last night alive. I smile. Her long, blonde hair dances in the light wind as she tilts her head back, and I liken her to the faeries I used to see in muggle storybooks. Winter shines bright behind her, covering the city streets below. The thick, white blanket of New Year’s Eve has always made me feel, if just for a night, weightless. The image shatters as Cara belches, a little beer dripping onto her chin.

Our friend Emmeline Vance joins us with a fresh can and floats down beside me, letting her feet dangle off the edge. “It’s almost midnight,” she says.

Cara yells gibberish in response.

“Have someone in mind for a midnight kiss?” I ask.

Emmeline blushes and chuckles lightly. “I was going to say you better find that boyfriend of yours.”

I look at the party behind me and shake my head. There are sixty-odd people from Hogwarts crammed inside and outside this rooftop flat, supplied unknowingly by Cara and Connor’s parents. My boyfriend, Connor Kent, can probably be found with his teammates talking strategy in his father’s office.

“He can find me if he wants a kiss,” I tell Emmeline.

“Make him do the work!” Cara yells, eyeing the street below. She looks at me. “Where is _my_ boyfriend?”

“He and his friends are inside seeing who can drink a can the quickest without spitting it all back out into your sink,” Emmeline points to the door.

Cara groans. “The flat is going to stink.”

“The flat already stinks,” I laugh. “Peter Pettigrew spilled mead all over the cushions. Connor almost had a meltdown.”

“Just go find my brother and kiss him already, won’t you?”

Cara struggles to stand up, so I help her, afraid of how she wobbles so close to the edge. Emmeline tells me she’ll take Cara inside to Cara’s boyfriend, Bertram Aubrey.

“Oi, Kent, great party!” I hear someone, I think James Potter, yell. Glass shatters almost immediately after.

Throwing this big a party was surprisingly easy for our close-knit group of four: Cara, Emmeline, me, and our friend Dorcas Meadowes, who is begrudgingly in Scotland with her family. Bertram and Connor, both Ravenclaw Seventh Years, invited their respective friends. Emmeline, a social butterfly in her own right, easily invited classmates throughout the last week of classes before the holiday. Cara asked me to get word to one Marauder or another in the Gryffindor common room, and I chose Remus, who lent me ink once when I spilled mine all over the armchair by the fireplace.

In times of darkness, a little savagery can create the brightest light.

I lean against the back of a bench where two girls are chatting. My arms tingle in the cold, my jacket lying forgotten in one of the bedrooms.

“Gemini wore a _caftan_ ,” I hear one of them say. “A bloody caftan!”

I think about my outfit of deep green corduroys, a black jumper, and plain clogs. My hair falls to my waist in flat, frizzy waves. I hadn’t put much thought into getting ready earlier as Cara and Connor were in a rush to hide everything expensive in one of the closets. Their family’s wealth shocked me when I was just an eleven-year-old girl moving into Shirley and Arnold’s modest cottage in the wizarding section of Caerphilly, the Kents’ home just down the road.

“Ruiz! Oi!” Connor’s voice erupts in the distance, interrupting my daydream. “Has anyone seen my girlfriend! I don’t want to kiss Lagunov at midnight!”

“Like you don’t already in the showers after games!”

“Can’t wait for Ravenclaw to claim the cup this year, Potter!”

I find Connor near the door to the flat, his arm around James Potter’s shoulders, house rivalry forgotten as he listens to the latter sing along to the music — quite loudly — _You’re so vain. I’ll bet you think you think this song is about you. Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you?_ James turns to yell the words into Connor’s ear, James’s forehead somehow covered in hair and sweat. Connor laughs loudly, soberly, and James begins to slur through the next verse.

“James is a terrible singer, don’t you think?” Sirius Black says, leaning against the wall beside me, wrapped in a dragonskin jacket, a cigarette resting between two slim fingers. He takes a drag.

“Can I steal a fag?” I ask, the familiar feeling of craving dulling all my other senses.

“What would your golden quidditch star boyfriend say about that?” He fishes one out of the breast pocket of his jacket, anyway.

“He hates the stuff,” I chuckle.

Sirius nods his head in response. I expected him to be as legless as James, but he seems as sober as Connor. I am somewhere in between, floating on the tingling sensation drink brings me. Connor eyes me from his huddle with James and smiles, and I fake a smile back. I raise the fag to my lips, and his smile falls. I try not to think about the silly lecture he’ll give me later.

“One minute to midnight!” Somebody yells. Connor will have to kiss me despite the taste of my usual tobacco and Sirius’s added menthol. The cool, mint flavor eases my guilt if just a tiny bit. “One minute to midnight!”

Connor extracts himself from James—who grabs onto someone else, his girlfriend absent tonight—and grabs my free hand as soon as he’s near. He ignores Sirius’s presence entirely, looking deep into my eyes.

“Would you be mad if I went to bed?” He asks. I almost choke on the smoke in my throat, but instead, turn my head away from him and toward Sirius to breathe it out. Sirius looks at me like we share a secret, but in fact, we just had our first conversation. I wonder if he knows my name or just my status as Connor’s girlfriend.

“You do plan on kissing me in less than a minute, right?” I say. The countdown, which started small at the minute mark, is much louder now at _45, 44, 43_ …

“Of course,” he smiles. I almost melt, but his gaze flickers to the flat behind me, shattering the moment. I look down at our shoes. A few years ago, Connor could make me blush by entering a room. His shining eyes and crisp shirts were a far cry from my childhood of torn trousers and matted hair. I still think about the way his pale hands look as they slide across my tan skin.

“Cara, Emmeline, and I are getting breakfast in the morning,” I let go of his hand. I think about anything but the growing distance between us. _27, 26, 24._ “We’ll all sleep in the spare tonight.”

“Bring me something back?”

“Some porridge?” I think if I loved him more, I wouldn’t feel bored with a simple conversation. I wouldn’t notice my cigarette is losing life, and I don’t want to ask for another. I wouldn’t notice the girl walking past us on a mission to kiss Sirius Black at midnight. _20, 19, 18._

“Sounds perfect, Aster.” My name always sounds foreign on his tongue. Every time I think about our relationship ending, I get a stomach ache. But I still think about it.

I lean back against the wall and take a drag. Connor’s face twists in annoyance, and I almost smile at the way his brow scrunches up. In my peripheral, Sirius leans down to whisper in the girl’s ear. If they were to date, would she find herself inches from the boy she once dreamt of kissing her, thinking only about how he’ll hate the taste of her tongue? Is this what love feels like? _13, 12, 11_.

“Ten, nine, eight!” Connor shouts to the crowd around us. I flinch. Sirius laughs into the girl’s brown hair. “Seven, six, five!” The girl puts one hand on Sirius’s shoulder and slides it up and around to the back of his neck. I think about her bravery. I’ve lost some of my boldness dating Connor. “Four, three, two!” Connor leans down, and I still. “One,” he says quietly, and his mouth lightly touches mine for a short, sour kiss.

I whisper, “Goodnight,” as he pulls away.

“Goodnight.” And he goes into the flat, probably about to put a silencing charm around the bedroom.

Sirius and the girl pull away from what looks like a deep, satisfying kiss.

“Thanks,” is all Sirius says, pushing his fag between his lips, breathing in. His pale, delicate cheekbones shine underneath the fairy lights Cara made Connor hang up. The girl looks at him for a moment, thanks him in return, and walks away with a look of disappointment.

“Nice necklace,” Sirius throws my way.

“Thank you,” I instinctively touch the crystal hanging from a leather chain. My tía gave it to me.

I think about striking up another conversation, but instead, step on the butt of my fag and make my way inside to find Cara and Emmeline.

.

January 1st, 1978

In the morning, after a mere three fitful hours of sleep, Cara, Emmeline, and I all pull on jumpers and jackets for breakfast. The living room is littered with sleeping teenagers and empty cans. On the couch, Remus Lupin reads from a small, hardcover novel with golden script across the binding, Sirius sitting beside him, arms outstretched over the back, his eyes closed and head tilted upwards. James and Peter are sprawled out on the floor in front of them.

The girl Sirius kissed at midnight is slumped into a chair, the tips of her hair falling into her slightly open mouth. Even like this, she is pretty. I wonder how much she thought of him before last night and how little he’ll think of her today. I understand the appeal of Sirius Black: the dragonskin jacket, the slight androgyny, the excitement of his reputation.

Thinking of Connor’s appeal, my stomach aches.

“Good morning,” Remus says without looking up. “Happy new year.”

“Morn’,” Sirius adds. Someone near lets out a loud, long snore.

“Good morning,” Cara breathes, taking a small sip of the hangover potion Dorcas made for us before the break. She passes the bottle to Emmeline. “I’d invite you lot to breakfast, but we aren’t close.”

Remus closes the novel and puts it on his lap. He turns to look at us as Emmeline finally gives me the potion. I throw back a small, shot sized dose and feel my bones loosen.

“Hello, Remus,” I say softly.

Remus smiles. “The lads and I are eating breakfast at James’s before returning home.”

“ _Home_ ,” Sirius snorts.

“My parents will give us a lecture,” James groans, not moving from his sprawled position half on top of Peter. “But then they’ll feed us.”

“Worth it,” Peter adds.

Remus pulls a pair of glasses out of his pocket and reaches down to give them to James.

“Good luck,” Cara chirps, smoothing down her hair. “I hope everyone here is gone when we return.”

.

Cara and I return to yelling, Emmeline having apparated home, and for a moment, I assume Cara’s parents have returned days early. The muffled sounds of shouts are heard even from the elevator, but once the doors open, the voice becomes clear. Christopher, the eldest Kent child, is kicking out the stragglers.

Students meet us in the hallway, some stopping to thank Cara, some with their eyes half-closed. Christopher is yelling obscenities in between cleaning spells, including a daunting _reparo!_ followed by the _clink_ of glass.

Bertram stops Cara in the hallway for a goodbye, and I bravely continue without her. When I reach the open door, I peek in to see Connor pointing his wand at a pile of cans, Christopher still yelling somewhere near. When Connor notices me in the doorway, he only shakes his head.

“Aster!” Christopher shouts, coming into view, a large rubbish bin floating beside him. He gently lowers it to the ground. I stay in the safety of the doorway — Tía Ramona’s superstition still sticking in the corners of my brain. “Where is my bloody sister! I want to yell at both of you! I don’t know if I’m supposed to yell at _you_ , but I am going to anyway!”

Christopher is six years older than me. He always seemed kilometers ahead of us, too far in the distance to catch up. He still does sometimes, but I do know we’ll someday feel more like peers. For now, he gets to play the adult, a mere twenty-two.

“She’s saying goodbye to Bertram,” I say, taking a cautious step inside. “Why are you here?”

“Why am I here! Why did you throw a party!”

“We’re sixteen,” I offer, forgetting Cara’s recent seventeenth birthday spent getting drunk by the lake.

“When I was sixteen — ”

“You would have jumped at the chance to throw a party,” Cara cuts in. “I may have been ten, but don’t think I don’t remember your Hogwarts days.”

Christopher sighs. “I won’t tell Mum and Dad if you clean the rest up.”

Cara smiles and grabs the rubbish bin, whistling a song I’ve never heard. She’s more knowledgeable about magical music than me, but I show her muggle records in return.

“Aster,” Christopher says, bringing me out of a trance. I think he is about to tell me to help with the cleanup, but instead, “I came to give you a letter. Arnold and Shirley brought it over for you.”

“A letter?” I look in between Connor and Christopher, but Connor only continues cleaning. “I could have seen it tomorrow when we returned.”

“It’s important,” he pulls the letter from his back pocket. “They said it’s from your sister.”

I look at Connor again to find nothing. No sympathy or love, not even a glance. I think I must’ve told him about my birth-parents, Azalea, Theo, and little Ramon, but I didn’t. I told myself I would when I trusted him with the ugly parts of me. The broken, jagged parts of me. But a boy so unmarred as he could never understand what it means to not be whole.

There’s a war looming over us; a spark ignited by the ugly underbelly of our little magic universe seeking to keep its gates closed from people like me. And Connor, beautiful, pureblooded, _ignorant_ , refuses to listen when I tell him to prepare for dark times ahead. If he can’t believe in the darkness of our present, how can he handle the ugliness of my past?

Christopher says my name once more and holds the letter out. I take it cautiously, afraid of what’s inside. I try to prepare myself for every possible scenario. _Hey Hermana, just writing to say that I still think you’re a freak and shouldn’t exist. Thanks for ruining our family. Love, Tu Hermana Coño._ Or _Hey, Aster, just wanted to let you know how superb we’re doing without you. Papi came back, and he and Mami both got better jobs. Uni is perfect. It’s amazing how great life can be when you have no problem children to worry about. Don’t ruin anybody else’s life if you’re able. Love, Tu Hermana Coño_.

I pass Connor and go outside, sitting on the cold concrete. The Kents charmed the roof to not fill with snow in the wintertime. I am grateful. I pull my knees to my chest and open the letter, surprised by its length.

_Aster,_

_I got your address from Tía Ramona; she finally relented, telling me that you come to see her whenever you’re on holiday. I’m glad that you still have someone from our family to whom you can turn in times of need. I’m writing this from a baby’s bedroom in London, a baby I think you should meet. Her name is Fern Aster Ruiz; she’s my daughter. She turned one a few days back. I named her for you._

_She’s not the reason for this letter, but I do regret you and her not having met yet. She’s such a happy baby, full of the same light and joy as you were at her age. You as a baby are some of my oldest memories. Your mop of hair that grew in oddly quickly, your twinkly brown eyes, your small giggle. I’m sorry we didn’t love you the way you deserve. I painted Imogen’s bedroom creamy yellow like yours once was. I’m hoping this color can forgive me and I can create new memories for it, like the moment of love I give to my daughter. I’m hoping that creamy yellow can come to mean love instead of hate and fear and regret._

_I’m a mama! How crazy is that?_

I notice a small smudge by that last sentence, where it looks like a drop of liquid fell without permission. It melts the punctuation, and I imagine the sentence to end with a question mark, but it may very well be an exclamation point. _How crazy is that!_ Azalea was always one for theatrics.

_But I’m a mama without guidance now. That’s why I’m writing to you. I know that our parents didn’t care for you, didn’t love you, and turned us kids against our sister. I know that Ramon can’t remember a time before our parents began to fear you. I know that Theo (Tío Theo!) only has small moments of that. I know that I can’t blame them for our fear of you, too. That we followed their lead without question. That I, the oldest, should have been there for you._

_I keep getting off track. My regret keeps getting in the way of this. I know that my next words might not affect you at all, that maybe you have long since become numb to the mention of us._

_Mami is dead. She got cancer a few years after you were gone. It had spread to her brain, and now she’s dead. I’m writing to you because it’s hard for Tía Ramona to use a pen with her tremors. This is the only way she would ever let me know where you are when you aren’t away at school learning magic. Magic! I feel free now to tell how jealous of you I always was. I think that’s why it was so easy for me to follow Mami and Papi._

_I’m writing to you to see if you would want to meet me in London for lunch whenever you can. I moved in with Papi soon after I got pregnant. Mami kicked me out. I think that’s when I started to regret what you had to endure in our family. Theo and Ramon are moving in after the funeral; the neighbors have been taking care of them._

I read the name of the muggle cafe she suggests, the _Love, Lea_ instead of _Love, Tu Hermana Coño_ , and I shove the letter in my jacket pocket. Looking out over the city, rooftop after rooftop running past the horizon, I do the math. Azalea is turning twenty in the summer, meaning she had Imogen when she was eighteen. Theo is recently eighteen, and Ramon is turning thirteen in two weeks. I send him a birthday card every year so he doesn’t forget me, but I don’t know if he receives them. Tía Ramona says she doesn’t know, either. I have been gone a little over six and a half years. My mother is dead. My sister named a child after me a year and a half ago, and I’m just learning of it. I wonder if she has a mop of dark hair growing in oddly quickly. I wonder if her eyes are brown like mine or hazel like Azalea’s. I wonder if she’ll be happier than I was.

Her name is Fern Aster Ruiz. Fern Aster for our mother’s love of flowers and me. Aster, my name, means daintiness. Fern means magic. I think Ruiz means Azalea is raising this child herself.

My niece. And my sister wants me to meet her.


	2. Fern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You look like her, you know,” I say it because it’s true, but maybe, I also say it to hurt her.
> 
> “Like whom?”
> 
> “Mami.”

January 6th, 1978

I meet Dorcas the day her family returns from holiday. Sitting on the edge of her creamy white bedspread dotted with tiny, green sprigs, I watch as she tends to her plants. Dorcas has an internship with Professor Sprout, tending to the greenhouses Wednesday evenings and Saturday mornings, learning everything Sprout can teach her, preparing for a career in herbology.

“Tell Cara the nettles aren’t ready yet,” she says to me. “I don’t know where she read that a nettle soup would improve the glossiness of her hair, but I bet Phyllida Spore would have a lot to say about such a rumor.”

I hum in agreement, pretending to have any idea what she’s on about. Dorcas rarely has much to say unless she’s talking about plants, and I never want to make her feel awkward about it. “She probably read it in _Witch Weekly_ while skiving off class.”

Dorcas’s father knocks on her open bedroom door, reminding us we need to leave to see my sister soon. He doesn’t actually mention my sister, and I wonder if Dorcas told him exactly what this lunch is about. He hangs in the doorway an extra second, and says, “The plants look nice,” barely eying them before turning around.

Mr. Meadowes is a muggle mechanic who Dorcas says loves grease more than people, she and her mother being the exceptions. He knows little about gardening, meanwhile the care of magical plants, but Dorcas smiles all the same. I think he wants to feel a part of her and her mother’s world, and I adore and envy it all at once, my warm blood rushing.

We floo to her uncle’s shop in Diagon Alley. It’s closed for the day, with small cauldrons and paints lining the walls. It’s a rentable room for children’s birthdays; the children decorate their first cauldrons for hours. Emmeline’s little brother had his last birthday here, where Cara and Dorcas stood in the corner with Emmeline while I painted my own cauldron with the children.

We make our way through Diagon Alley, almost into the Leaky Cauldron when we hear screams of, “Meadowes! Meadowes! OI! Where were you on the eve!”

“New Years’ Eve, c’mon Prongs.”

“Get off my back, Moony!”

I tap Dorcas on the shoulder, and we turn around, inviting the inevitable. I’m surprised to actually see Remus being shrugged off of James’s back in the middle of the cobblestone street. They walk toward us, _Merlin_ , all four of them. They’re fun boys, and Remus helped Emmeline when she fell behind in potions last year. But they’re also loud, rambunctious, and, at times, annoying. And we’re late.

Dorcas says, “Hello, lads,” checks her watch, and turns around, walking toward the pub once more. I look at each of the boys before turning around and following her.

“Lots to do there?” I hear Peter question from behind.

“No,” I call. A few steps ahead, Dorcas holds open the door to the pub. “Just late for a meeting.”

Dorcas mouths, _A meeting?_

I pass her and go through the doorway, shrugging my shoulders.

“We could walk you!” James yells. I turn to see him pulling on the arm of Dorcas’s jacket as she tries to catch up to me. She told me that James, the surprise Head Boy for this year, has taken to sitting with her during the meetings his girlfriend seems to lead alone. Dorcas, too kind for her own good, lets him.

“Why?” She asks, using the deadpan voice she reserves for everyone but her friends, family, and Professor Sprout.

“Because we’ve nothing to do,” Remus tells us.

“And what will you do after we arrive?” I question, stopping to let Dorcas catch up.

“That’s a problem for our future selves,” Peter says like it’s an intelligent response.

The three others make noises of agreement.

Dorcas, with a look of regret and defeat, gestures for them to follow. My heart jumps into my throat at the thought of these boys anywhere near Azalea and Fern.

We walk, Dorcas and me in silence, them in an uproar of conversation. James basically writes a sonnet for Lily Evans, and Sirius changes the lines to practical _smut_. James yells profanities in return, and Remus tells them to change the subject. So they do. Muggles look at us like wild teenagers from the world I was born to, unaware of the magic in our bones. Peter rattles on about Boxing Day, and the others listen and ask questions about Peter’s extended family. It’s nice to listen to them act like normal people. A lack of interaction over the years has given me an incomplete view of them as individuals.

When we arrive at the cafe, I stop short, Sirius running into my back as he fails to notice. I rub the back of my head as I turn again, and catch Sirius watching my bum. I pretend not to notice.

“Alright, boys, final stop,” I say, nervously looking between them and the cafe.

“What secrets have you got there, Ruiz?”

It’s Sirius who asks it, but it’s all of us who regret it. Dorcas puts a hand on my shoulder and narrows her eyes at the intrusive boy. I know very little about these blokes, but I do know they say too much all the time.

“An ironic question, right? If I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore.”

“Clever girl. Much too clever for me, right?”

“Padfoot, please don’t flirt with my quidditch rival’s girlfriend.”

And Sirius’s eyes seem to open wider as if he’s forgotten our interaction last night and is just realizing who I am. He, at least, tries to hide this social faux pas and says, “You can flirt with a girl without trying to steal her from her quidditch leading boyfriend.”

“As if you could,” I reply quickly but without the bite I desire.

I turn to look into the cafe once more, noticing the back of a dark-haired girl sitting at the counter. Her curls are tighter than my waves but looser than Dorcas’s coils. Her hair is loose and frizzy like mine and not at all like Dorcas’s, which is always styled with products. I assume it’s Azalea as I see a baby carrier sat on the stool beside her, a hand reaching in and being held by smaller ones.

“Time to go in,” I say but do not move.

“Or you could come to drink with us,” James offers. “There’s probably a shop somewhere willing to sell us overpriced bottles.”

“Thank you for the offer of getting drunk with practical strangers, but —”

“Friendly acquaintances,” James interrupts.

My smile is unfinished before I continue. “But this is important, I think.”

“You think?” Remus asks.

“Too personal for friendly acquaintances,” I say, looking at the baby carrier once more. “Estranged familial dysfunction and bitter, unresolved trauma. The kind of stuff you only tell your best friends under the covers after twilight, when you’re a bit too delirious to remember your brick and mortar walls.”

Silence falls between the four boys for the first time since they yelled our way in Diagon Alley. Maybe for the first time since they met each other in whatever pub made the mistake of serving them. They are awestruck by my words, I think, the way my friends used to be when they were learning me. Eventually, these four boys will come to realize they’re not learning me at all. Nobody does without my permission.

I think of Connor.

“That sounds so fucking sad,” James says after a moment.

I am reminded of how legless they all must be and hope they forget all about today.

Sirius chuckles beside him, and says, “Where was that wonderful tact when I was revealing my familial dysfunction?”

“Sorry,” James slurs in return.

“Time to go in,” Dorcas murmurs, echoing my words from moments ago. She gestures into the cafe, where I watch as Azalea spots me. Dorcas continues, “Unless you want to introduce these boys to —”

“See you at school,” I say quickly, turning around.

“If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, mine are broad,” Sirius quips.

“No, they aren’t.” James slaps him on the back of the head.

.

Once seated at a table with Azalea and Fern, I only order a coffee. Dorcas follows suit. Azalea, on the other hand, orders a plate of pastries and her own hot chocolate. We sit in uncomfortable silence as we wait. In my periphery, I watch Dorcas look between us, noting our similarities up close. We have the same light brown skin, but her face is full of freckles. Our eyes are the same muddy brown, like Dorcas’s, but ours are wide and watery. Dorcas once told me I always look on the verge of tears.

“You look like her, you know,” I say it because it’s true, but maybe, I also say it to hurt her.

“Like whom?”

“Mami.”

Silence falls once more. I look out the window to see those four boys still standing at the corner, gesturing passionately at one another. I wonder if they can’t agree on the next place to go for more alcohol. I notice Remus notice me, and he offers a gentle smile. I pretend not to see.

“I’m sorry,” Azalea eventually says, “I invited you here, I should be the one to talk.”

“Then talk,” I reply, crossing my arms and leaning back. My legs won’t stop shaking against Dorcas’s beneath the table. 

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately,” Azalea breathes.

“Your letter said all that,” I say.. “Mami died and you had a baby and now you’re feeling guilty for my traumatizing childhood because whenever you look at your infant daughter you remember all your mistakes.”

“Aster —”

“What is this, Azalea?” I seethe. “Does Mami’s death remind you of your own mortality? Do you not want to die knowing I still hate you?”

“I want us to be a _family_ again,” Azalea says earnestly. A small tear escapes her eyes, and she forcefully wipes it away. She breathes deeply, regaining control. I think of the times I’ve done exactly this, refusing to let anyone else see me in distress. I think of Papi. Azalea continues, “I want to be your sister, and I want to do better this time.”

I huff. My hand falls under the table and grabs onto Dorcas’s. She squeezes it tightly.

“I don’t know,” I eventually mumble. “I have a family. I have parents who love me and friends like Dorcas at school. I have people who always want to have me. _Familia_ , Azalea. I have all the things you were supposed to give me and didn’t. Shirley and Arnold took me in and gave me a home when Mami and Papi refused.”

I think of the siblings I lost, and immediately replace them with the Kents in my head, three siblings to match my own, but the thought of Connor’s lips sucking at the pulse point on my neck sends both a shiver down my spine and bile up my throat.

The bell rings as the cafe door opens. The boys sit at the counter, loudly order coffees and chip butties. I can feel my heartbeat speed up at the thought of any of them coming over here. Dorcas’s head turns their way, and then, she looks at me, worried.

“I can ask them to leave,” she says.

“No, no,” I concede. I would rather die than draw any more attention to this situation.

“Do you know them?” Azalea reaches down to tickle Fern’s nose.

“Not really,” I respond quickly.

The boy who took our order arrives with it and places everything delicately onto the table. I lift up my hot coffee and take a sip, breathing through the burning sensation as it travels down my throat and disappears before reaching my stomach.

“What can I do to make up for my mistakes?” Azalea asks. “What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“ _No sé!_ ” I snap. I feel a tinge of something in my belly, and remember the way my parents would revert to their native Spanish whenever angry, anxious, or irritated. I remember being the child spoken to in Spanish the most and regret the old habit forming once more as I look at my sister across from me.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” Azalea surrenders.

“I’m losing my Spanish,” I admit, eyes looking toward the table. “A school in Scotland full of Europeans isn’t exactly a hub for speaking the language.”

“No one speaks it much in London, either,” Azalea tells me. “Outside of us.”

 _Us_ , I dwell. Papi, Azalea, Theo, Ramon, and, formerly, Mami. Maybe they even keep in touch with Tía Ramona at the home. I hope they do past telling her of Mami’s death and using her to get to me.

So I ask.

“How often are all of you in touch with Tía Ramona?”

“Mostly just the holidays,” Azalea answers while looking at the table, “but Theo is actually in touch with her a lot. He travels to see her about once a month and sometimes takes Ramon if Mum will let him.”

She looks up, her eyes wide, and corrects, “If Mum _would_ let him.”

I think about the fight Tía Ramona put up to force my parents to keep me. I think about the fight she put up with the courts to take me in herself, but that was short lived as she was already in the home. My chest feels heavy and hot as I look at Fern asleep in her carrier, and after the final sip of my coffee, I stand.

“I think it’s time to go,” I tell Dorcas. She follows my lead and grabs her coat off the back of her chair.

Azalea looks up at us helplessly, and I feel no obligation or pity.

“It was good to see you,” she tries.

“Yeah,” I return, wrapping my scarf tight around me.

Dorcas throws her an awkward wave and walks with me, passing by the four boys telling drunken stories on their stools. I do not think they notice us.

Once outside, Dorcas gives me a few places we could stop in before heading home, but I am lost in my mind as we stand on the sidewalk. There is too much heartache in my chest to even begin to think about which store we should pop in for plants or art supplies.

“Aster!” Azaleas calls from the open cafe door, hurrying through its threshold with Fern safely in her carrier. The baby’s loud cries fill the busy London sidewalk as she speed-walks toward us.

Out of breath, curls flying about in the wind, she lets out a low, “I’m sorry.” She looks to the ground before continuing. “Tía Romona didn’t want to see me much after Mami and Papi sent you away. She blamed me, too, because I was old enough to know better. But she _loves_ the boys, and I promise to make sure they both see her at least twice a month from now on.”

I listen to her words carefully, considering her earnestness, but I’m distracted when some recognizable Slytherins turn a corner and walk toward us. One of them is Mulciber, infamous now for the terror he inspires. Last term, he spent every single Saturday in detention after what he did to Mary Macdonald not even a week into the new school year.

“I’d like that, Azalea,” I say quickly, nudging Dorcas so she can see them too, “but I think it’s time you take Fern home.”

“Alright.” Azalea pushes the blanket wrapped around Fern until it is just below her chin and looks me in the eyes. “I love you, Aster.”

I consider her for a quick moment, glancing at the Slytherin blood purists getting closer.

“I love you, too,” I respond. It’s both a truth and a lie, creating warmth and fire in my belly I do not understand.

Thankfully, Azalea hurries off, shushing Fern as she goes, taking no notice of the terrifying boys as she passes. I wonder if, to people who don’t know about blood purity and the darkest part of our magical world, they just look like any of the spindly boys that litter the London streets, taking drags off of cigarettes and making eyes at pretty girls walking out of dress shops. I consider them for a moment, none particularly tall or muscly, but my knowledge of their talents with dark magic throws a shadow over everything else, and my head grows foggy.

They stop before us, three of them, all dressed in layers of black, shielding their pale bodies from the cold. Dorcas revealed to me on a particularly emotional night in fourth year that she has grown afraid to walk the corridors alone. More than a handful of our peers have taken to calling her slurs, yelled across rooms or whispered into her ear when they dare to get close, some having to do with her muggle father and others having to do with the color of her skin. Dorcas is the top of our class — some professors calling her the brightest witch of our age — and can probably take down an assailant in seconds, but it doesn’t stop the nightmares or anxiety constantly bubbling in her chest.

“Meadowes, Ruiz,” Mulciber greets with a vicious smirk. “Lovely to see two witches out in muggle London.”

I recognize both of the boys with him to be the already graduated Lucius Malfoy and the-still-lurking-the-halls Severus Snape. I still recall the sight of him hanging upside down on the grounds in our fifth year with James’s wand point at his feet. I also still recall the poison in the air when he shouted the word _mudblood_ at his supposed best friend, Lily Evans.

“We’re meeting some friends,” Dorcas lies. I wonder why she would say such a thing, but then I notice one hand twitching near the wand in her jacket pocket and the other pointing inside the cafe. I follow the tip of her finger through the window, and see those four bright, Gryffindor boys, eyes glassy from intoxication, looking out the window and back at us. I watch the edges of Sirius’s mouth move as he sneers.

“A lot of Gryffindors out today,” Mulciber comments. “Blood traitors and mudbloods alike.” He turns to say _mudbloods_ while looking into my eyes. His are cold and blue.

I feel the blood rush through my body, fiery and alive, indignant and offended. But it’s Dorcas who grasps her wand, a look of pure hatred painted across her beautiful face.

“Let’s get out of here,” Severus says slowly. “We’ll see them at school.”

Mulciber smiles once more, and I imagine his yellowing teeth smeared with blood.

“Until next time,” he says with a quirk of his brow.

I have nothing to say in return, but even if I did, they do not wait to find out, turning around to walk back the way they came. Not a moment later, the cafe door is banging open as Sirius charges onto the sidewalk, his friends behind him.

“What the fuck are they doing here?” Sirius grits.

“Looking for prey, probably,” Dorcas responds, eyes still looking at the corner the Slytherins disappeared around.

“What did they say?” James asks in a lighter tone.

“You’re all blood traitors, I’m a mudblood, and he’ll see us at school,” I list off like I’m reading Shirley the grocery list.

“You’re not,” Sirius says as if he knows a thing.

“I mean, I literally am.” I snort. “It’s just not a very kind word to use.”

Dorcas reaches out to take my hand.

“We should go,” I tell her. “We can go to the dress shop and buy something pretty. Your mum can yell at you, and Shirley can pretend not to be annoyed with me.”

She smiles wide and waves goodbye to the three boys in front of us. They do not wave in return, but we walk away anyway.


	3. Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily slides open the compartment door slightly, leaning out in the space she creates.
> 
> “Fancy meeting you here,” she says slowly, a smile forming. Hers is so different from Mulciber, who manages to make a smile somehow unkind. “Is he giving you much trouble?”

January 9, 1978

I like to think I know a thing or two about unhappy endings: Papi leaving, Mami kicking me out, Papi refusing to have me, the courts refusing Tía Ramona my guardianship. The biggest thing I have come to understand about unhappy endings is they never happen when you expect them.

“What are we?” Connor asks me in a once-empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express. He puts my worst intrusive thoughts into words, slouching into the bench and looking up at the ceiling.

I think this is the end.

“We’re a couple,” I respond instantly.

“Couples tell each other things,” he bites. “I found out through my sister about your own. I didn’t even know your parents were still alive.”

“What is happening right now?”

I stand, stepping away from him and falling back onto the opposite bench.

“I thought I knew you, but you don’t tell me anything.”

“What are you  _ talking about _ ?” I lean toward him, elbows on my knees. “I tell you everything of importance. I tell you how I’m feeling day-to-day and what I need from you. I tell you I love you. I tell you when it’s hard for me to love you.”

“You don’t tell me your story. I thought your parents  _ died _ .”

“What does that have to do with us?” I stand once more, planting my feet firmly so as not to fall again. “What happened to me then has  _ nothing _ to do with us now.”

“You had lunch with your long lost sister  _ five _ days ago, and I learned about it through Cara!” Connor covers his face with his hands. “What happened to you back then, Aster? What happened to you?”

“A lot!” I fall back on the opposite bench once more, though this time intentionally. “You live in a world where children are orphaned by death and destruction, but I don’t. My parents  _ didn’t want me _ , Connor. They hated and feared me the moment my magic began to manifest, and when McGonagall came to my home to tell my mother what I am, she called my father and told him to take me. And he refused.”

Connor reaches out. I recoil and look out the window, watching the sprawling landscape get further covered with pure, white snow. I liken the scene to one from the many snow globes Shirley and Arnold keep around our home.

“I’m sorry, Aster,” Connor sighs, leaning back once more. Of all the things he can be — rash and hypocritical, stiff and judgmental to a fault — he has always been respectful of my boundaries. And I have a lot of them.

The first time he moved to touch me, I was eleven, and he was twelve. His hand landed on my shoulder in a motion of camaraderie after Cara and I got caught shoplifting, and I whirled around and whacked him over the head. He will never admit how much it hurt, but my hand was bruised for weeks after.

Now, he looks me over for a second: the fringed leather jacket, the gold hoop in my nose, my hair lazily falling around me in waves. I try not to think of my stomach or my thighs or the layer of fat over them both as I look back at him: fit and handsome with cropped, blonde hair; piercing blue eyes; a hard jawline; crisp clothes.

“I love you…” he breathes.

There is a moment between breaths where I wait for the inevitable condition to follow.

“But I need you to let me in.”

“I do, though.” I turn to him once more but find his hurt eyes hard to look at. “My life back then isn’t my life now. I’m not an unwanted orphan anymore, love. I have parents and a sister in Cara and  _ you _ .”

“But your real sister —”

“She reached out to me, Connor, not the other way around.”

Connor moves to sit beside me on my bench and reaches a hand out to hold my own. We sit in silence. I do not know how to break it. There is something deep in my chest, hurt or fear. Something I push deep within me. I do not tell him about Tía Ramona. I do not tell him about Fern. I do not tell him about the neighborhood children who used their fists when their words no longer hurt.

I do not tell him my birth-mother is dead.

.

“I thought he  _ knew _ ,” Cara pleads once I’m back in our compartment, Connor off with his friends or quidditch team. I guess they’re the same.

“Well, he didn’t,” I reply.

I stick my fingers into Dorcas’s jar of raspberries, knowing my lips and fingers soon will be stained red like hers. Dorcas ignores us in favor of her snack while Emmeline twirls her hair and reads from a large book. Her and Cara’s cats, Jasper and Cymbeline, lounge on opposite luggage racks.

“And why didn’t he know?” Cara raises her brows.

“I thought he was going to break up with me today,” I say instead of answering her question.

Cara’s brows just rise further.

“I’m going to the loo,” I mumble, quickly standing. “I should probably wash these berry stains off before they… you know…  _ stain _ .”

“Oi, I’ll join,” Dorcas adds with a smile. Her fingers and lips are less messy than mine, and I dread some type of therapy disguised as friendly conversation.

The compartment door opens and closes with two thuds, and Dorcas and I are off. The corridor is mostly empty, save for a few stragglers. We weave through them with ease on our way to the back of the train.

“You shouldn’t be mad at Cara,” Dorcas tells me.

“I know that.”

“It didn’t seem that way seconds ago.”

“I know that, too,” I grunt. “And I know not telling Connor was weird.”

Dorcas rests a hand on my shoulder. For a second, I think it’s in comfort, but then her grip tightens as she slows us to a stop. I look up from the floor and down the corridor, spotting Mulciber and Severus with Regulus Black.

“Bloody hell,” Dorcas whispers.

Mulciber’s lips quirk up into a devilish smile. He, Severus, and Regulus are already in their robes with the Slytherin crest proudly displayed on their chests. I can’t help the noise of the disgust that comes from my throat, but thankfully they don’t step into earshot until after.

“Meadowes, Ruiz,” Mulciber greets once more.

I think of him bundled in muggle clothes, a red plaid jacket and a winter hat, his hands shoved into his pockets as the cold bit his pale skin. He’s more menacing in his school robes. I think of Mary Macdonald.

“Been too long,” I respond callously.

“I agree.” Mucliber’s smile grows. “Still in your muggle attire?”

“I like jeans,” Dorcas says lowly.

“C’mon,” Regulus says, eying the compartment to my left. “We should go.”

Mulciber looks back at Regulus before following his gaze. I look, too, and find Lily Evans standing directly in front of the window in her compartment with a face full of contempt. Her upper lip snarls when she locks eyes with Mulciber. He throws her a smile.

“Let’s go, then,” he grunts.

His shoulder hits mine roughly as he, Severus, and Regulus walk away.

Lily slides open the compartment door slightly, leaning out in the space she creates.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she says slowly, a smile forming. Hers is so different from Mulciber, who manages to make a smile somehow unkind. “Is he giving you much trouble?”

“We saw him in London!” James unnecessarily shouts from behind her. “He said some nasty things to them.”

“And this lot saves us once again,” I mutter.

Dorcas chuckles.

“Sorry you find yourselves in need of saving,” Lily replies without missing a beat. “I’m sure you had it handled otherwise, but I have my eye on Mulciber for a lot of reasons.”

The benches behind her are overflowing with seventh-year Gryffindors all sat half on top of one another. Most are laughing or talking at a reasonable volume while James shouts over them. Sirius seems to be muttering into Remus’s ear as he looks our way. Mary Macdonald is close to the window, eyes cast down to the hands wringing in her lap.

“Right, well, good luck that.” Dorcas taps my shoulder. “We should be going.”

“Stay safe,” Lily calls as we walk toward the loo.

Dorcas and I are silent until we make it back to the compartment.

.

At dinner, Dorcas and I wave to Cara and Emmeline from our seats at the Gryffindor table. Cara and Emmeline sit next to each other at the Hufflepuff table, the former’s face full of boredom and the latter’s face full of excitement to be home.

The hall is still filling up with students as people slowly walk through the corridors while catching up about their holiday breaks. The only people I would talk to already lived through it all with me, drunken nights and family reunions alike.

Dorcas tells me I should get some plants if I really want to spruce up my room back home, but I tell her I don’t have a green thumb.

“You don’t need a green thumb to have plants,” she responds, “you just need to care for them like family.”

“I think we both know that term is a bit skewed to me.”

Dorcas chuckles at my sarcasm. “Alright, then care for them like friends.”

“Care for  _ what  _ like friends?” James asks, sitting across from us.

The hoard of seventh-year Gryffindors follows him, taking seats all around us. Sirius has to apologize several times for knocking my limbs as he squeezes in next to me. On my other side, Dorcas scoots closer to me as Marlene McKinnon throws a lot of blonde hair over her shoulder, almost hitting Dorcas in the face.

“Plants,” Dorcas replies. “I was telling Aster to get some plants.”

“I’m not getting plants,” I tell her and only her.

I’m surprised she isn’t as shocked as I am by the group around us. Then again, Dorcas, like me, can be almost too good at hiding her feelings.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” I ask slowly.

“Don’t want us around, Cruz?” Sirius asks.

“We’re good company!” James shouts.

“Just curious.” I shake my head. “I tend to question the unusual.”

I direct the latter part at Sirius, who is rubbing small buds of greens off the chest of his robes. He follows my gaze and shrugs. I notice the glassy layer over his eyes and the white parts tinged pink.

Mary Macdonald leans over Sirius, pointing to the crystal resting over my uniform.

“I like this,” she says, quietly. “Far out.”

“Thank you. It was a gift.”

Mary leans back as James begins loudly telling Sirius about something to which I pay no attention. Across the hall, Connor catches my eye, ignoring his friends around him as he looks between me and the group of people who have decided Dorcas and I are friends, at least for tonight. I briefly wonder if Lily, currently muttering to Marlene McKinnon, or Sirius, currently listening to James from across the table, has decided Dorcas and I are in further need of saving.

Connor looks less than enthused. I have never known him to be jealous, but maybe he has never had reason with me. I avoid most people in the castle at all costs.

Essentially, being surrounded by these particularly loud and friendly seventh years is a bit of a nightmare.

Dorcas places a hand on my leg as if she knows. Tearing my eyes away from Connor’s sullen mouth, Dorcas and I share a look, she rolling her eyes, me sighing. The conversations around us keep on like we aren’t there, James being the loudest of all with Lily in a close second. Some were somewhat surprised by their sudden final year romance, while others saw past Lily’s insults and condescension to the fiery tension beneath. Or so Cara tells me.

I turn the hanging crystal over between my fingers, waiting for the food to appear, so I have something else to do with the hands. The burning anxiety in my chest aches for a cigarette, and I hope that with all the first-day-of-term excitement, I can sneak away for a fag during the rush back to the dormitories.

Or maybe my roommates will take pity on me and not say anything as I let my legs dangle out the window to keep most of the smoke out of the room.

“I could use a fucking fag,” Sirius says, echoing my thoughts. “Or some shepherd's pie.”

“Where  _ is _ the food?” Peter throws across the table.

And like he summoned it, piles of food appear in front of us, the welcoming feast always being the biggest meal of the term. Sirius nudges me towards the pie in front of Dorcas, and I cut him a large piece before disposing of it onto the plate he holds in waiting. He moans rather loudly after taking his first bite.

I grab myself a helping of bangers and mash, keeping my own excitement over the food quiet as I eat. It quells the anxiety in my chest slightly, but the itching between my fingers doesn’t go away. My hand shakes slightly as I lift a forkful of potatoes to my lips. It’s different from Tía Ramona’s tremors but still concerning.

I ignore Sirius staring at the shaking and place my hand under the table as I chew.

Thoughts of Tía Ramona bring forth thoughts of Azaelea, of Fern, of Theo and Ramon, of Papi. I wonder how many lines spread across Papi’s face; I wonder if he has salt and pepper hair.

Mami’s funeral was today. Between the feelings of receiving Azalea’s letter and meeting Fern, I didn’t realize — until this moment, at least — Azalea didn’t invite me. I am silent throughout the rest of dinner.

.

After dinner, Connor catches my arm just outside the great hall. He leads me away from the crowd toward a tapestry on the first floor behind a suit of armor. When we first started dating at the start of my fifth year, before I’d told Cara, this is where we would meet. It was exhilarating then, the secret, the kisses, the feeling of his hands grabbing at places no one had ever held me before.

Tonight, it all feels different, lips and hands and groans. It’s like we’re past this; there is no secret between us, no reason for hiding behind statues and tapestries. We no longer keep our hands to ourselves in front of Cara. I no longer blush every time he looks my way.

I try to forget about all this and lean into the physical sensation of his touch, but my mind has other ideas as it wanders.

.

It’s late when I tiptoe down to the common room in corduroys, a thick jumper, and even thicker socks. My right index finger taps against the pack of cigarettes in hand, and the metal from one of the many rings adorning my knuckles emphasizes the sound.

The common room is empty. I climb onto the little table beneath the window, grab the black iron handle on the window, and spin it to swing open the glass. The cold winter air breaks in. It sneaks beneath the hems of my sleeves to attack my skin, but I still push further until my butt is on the tabletop and my legs are dangling over the window’s edge and into the night.

I spark a match and light a fag. The first breath brings me immediate calm, but I know it will leave me before I finish the cigarette.

I take a deep breath out, a trail of deep white smoke escaping into the night, floating away until it disperses into the inky black sky. Footsteps sound on the boys’ stairs, and I hold the cigarette down beneath the window’s edge and outside, ready to drop it. A laugh echoes, joyous and long, and I think I know who it is by its volume.

James enters the common room first, tossing a deck of cards into the air, all fifty-two safely tucked into a cardboard box not unlike the one that holds my fags. Peter comes next, a large, goofy smile plastered on his face. Remus follows next, more stalking than walking, hands behind his back. Sirius struts in last, already twisting a cigarette between his first two fingers, hair tucked into a tight knot at the nape of his neck.

Their grunts and laughs and quips die down as they notice me on the table, and I take a long drag in response to their stares, turning back to the moonlit grounds. Melting snow appears in patches atop the grass, the once fresh white blanket now yellowing as it ages like the wallpaper in the attic back home in Caerphilly.

Their shuffling grows louder as they near, and before I can finish the fag and put it out on the castle wall, Sirius is sliding up beside me on the table and fumbling with a match.

“This scene feels familiar,” he says, swiping the match four times before it finally lights.

It’s not the first time we’ve been in the common room alone at night, but usually, he’ll simply walk back upstairs when he notices me in the window. I used to find it insulting, but then, one night, he got to the window first, and I understood the perceived invasion of space and shuffled back up the girls’ staircase.

He swings his legs around, shoving them through the window frame, his entire right leg rubbing against my entire left leg, and I am acutely aware of how his hand holds onto my elbow to steady himself.

“Don’t you have a Head Boy’s suite or something?” I ask James.

“It’s a tiny, lonely bedroom with a tiny, shared common room where Lily spends all her time reading,” he simply replies.

“And anyway,” Peter says, “we like Prongs much more than he does.”

I hate their stupid, weird, old-timey animal nicknames.

Sirius laughs beside me, turning as smoke cascades out of his mouth and right into my face. I roll my eyes, taking a drag off of my own fag, watching as it gets closer and closer to the butt. I had planned to be alone tonight, chain-smoking on this very windowsill and  _ not _ thinking about my mother’s funeral.

Was there an abundance of flowers? Did any of them hold the significance she would have wanted? Were there any sympathy bouquets of chrysanthemum, marigold, lily of the valley, cypress, and mint? Were there any hemlocks or forget-me-nots scattered about the funeral home?

Was Tía Ramona there to mourn her sister?

“Never sad next to a pretty girl who didn’t cough after I accidentally blew smoke in her face,” he says. I know enough about enough to know this is supposed to be a line. I guess blokes as attractive and adored as Sirius never had to practice in front of a mirror.

“Are you romanticizing my addiction? Because if I keep this up, I won’t be so pretty in ten years.”

Sirius just snorts in response, eyes dancing as his gaze lowers to my jumper. Its lumpy, thick fabric hides the curves of my stomach beneath. These corduroys are about half a size too small, so I always pair them with a loose jumper to hide the way the bottom of my stomach pushes against the high-waisted pants.

“Maybe five,” Remus adds, dealing out a few cards to James and Peter on the floor.

I wonder where four boys who grew up in the wizarding world got a simple deck of cards but do not voice the question.

“Stop hitting on my rival’s girlfriend,” James groans.

“Stop calling him your rival. It’s so histrionic.”

“Stop using big words, Moony,” Peter quips. “We already know you’re smarter than us.”

James, Remus, and Peter proceed to play a card game I do not recognize, but I only know a little about poker and a lot about solitaire. James yells a lot, Peter huffs even more, and Remus sits in a quiet focus that leads him to eventual victory. Watching them play, I don't think twice about lighting another cigarette after my first one begins to burn into the filter.

James looks away as Remus begins to clean up the cards — his apparent  _ punishment for victory _ — and looks to me, smile vanishing.

“Ruiz, I know you’re all lone-wolf or whatever,” James says slowly. I know I’m not going to like whatever he says next. “But Lily’s worried about Mulciber. He tends to get a little short-sighted. The thing with Mary… It wasn’t the first time he’d done something. It was just the worst time.”

I take a moment to take a drag, staring at him. At some point during their game, I turned around to lay my legs across the table, back unsupported as it precariously sits almost outside the window. I turn to blow smoke at Sirius, who only narrows his eyes, a smirk playing on his thin lips. With his hair back like that, I think his cheekbones could cut glass. I turn back to James, pushing that thought out of my mind.

“I’m not a little girl, James.”

“It’s just that you and MacDonald are both…”

“Gryffindors?” I ask, teasing.

Watching his face contort in caution and embarrassment brings me more satisfaction than it probably should.

“Muggleborn,” Sirius finishes, his usual careless confidence shrinking. “Evans is just concerned.”

“Yes, well, Sirius, thank Lily for her concern, but I am not in need of saving.”

“You never use last names,” Sirius comments.

“Familial titles and all that,” I reply, “never been a fan of them defining a person.”

“So would you prefer we call you Aster?”

I slide off the table, socked feet making little noise as I hit the ground. I turn to the four boys and say, “I don’t really care what you call me. Goodnight.”

I do not wait for their obligated replies as I walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Did a big-time move! But I'm back again!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome a new, darker, Marauder-era story. This story will not be updated often, as it will be taking a backseat to Ask Anonymous, my baby. But the idea of something darker and first-war centric has been dancing around in my brain for a while, and I just wanted to get out however little I can.
> 
> Also, yes, more floriography references. There is always a bouquet sitting in front of my window. Flowers never fail to brighten my mood.
> 
> Thanks for reading.
> 
> All my love <3


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